


hoping to hit you somewhere vital.

by blessed_image (orphan_account)



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Ethan Winters Needs A Hug, Gen, Introspection, MF, Mental Health Issues, but poetically, desperately, hm, inspired by some oscar wilde poem i hardly remember, mwah, should i get over re7? yes? dont care i love ethan, this is another short rant fic, where i just make ethan hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:01:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/blessed_image
Summary: Would it be by bitter look and calloused hands?
Kudos: 11





	hoping to hit you somewhere vital.

Blood is red. This is an undeniable fact. 

Blood is on his hands. This is also true.

And, despite this truth, there is something fake in the way he interprets it- because the moulded did not bleed, and there was no other option than to spill the Baker’s blood. It was theirs, or it was his. This does not make it an easier truth to swallow. He would appreciate if his blood stayed where it should be, thank you very much. This did not make the feeling of the wet red drying over anymore good. Blood is red, and red was the colour that stained his skin- tarnished, tainted, torn- even after the copious amounts of soap he would use for days, weeks and months after the initial spills. 

If he was completely honest, however, he would rather the blood be spilt than to be watched any longer by the watchers- who watched him day and night, and watched him when he tried to weep or tried to pray, and who watched him should he have ever tried to rob the predator’s of their prey. And he would rather blood be spilt if it meant he did not have to feel the thirst that sanded over his throat again; whilst the executioner with his farmer’s gloves slips through rusted doors and threatens the throat may thirst no more- again. Again. Again. 

Again.

And he does not wish to have to sit in the shadows and wonder if the clanking of a hammer was the sound of freedom or the sound of his own funeral service. Not whilst the buzzing burning through his veins shouts that he is not dead, yet. Every plank of wood, every nook and cranny serves as either an escape plan or an open casket. Again. And again. He does not, again, want to question if his own wife would be the one to show him the answer to these questions. He does not sit around and wait out the banging, he does not wring his hands and he _did not_ weep. He does not want to know how he would’ve died in that house. 

Would it be by bitter look and calloused hands? Would it be with a flattering word? Perhaps, instead, just an insult and a bullet. 

But he wonders, and he thinks, and wishes. Again. And again. And _again_.


End file.
